Fire and Gold
by fiesa
Summary: Pierce, Tamora - Circle of Magic. The journey is the destination. Niklaren Goldeye, strongest seer of his generation. (They have been a part of him since he can remember.) Complete in four chapters.
1. I

**Fire and Gold**

 _Summary: Pierce, Tamora - Circle of Magic. The journey is the destination. Niklaren Goldeye, strongest seer of his generation. (They have been a part of him since he can remember.) Complete in four chapters._

 _Warning: - (AU?)_

 _Set: Story-unrelated._

 _Disclaimer: Standards apply._

* * *

 **I.**

"I _hate_ stairs," someone mutters, and Niko looks up to see a woman climb the staircase to the roof on which he's sitting.

She is old. Like, _really_ old. Her hair is grey and her back is bent, her green skirts flap around her ankles as she limps up the stairs, and she's wearing spectacles like Granpa.

The woman doesn't look at him but steps forward, towards the edge, sighing deeply. "There's rain coming. And a storm. We'd better bring in the cattle."

He had dreamed there would be rain tonight, too.

"Who are you? What are you doin'?"

A distant thunder rumbles.

The woman shakes herself, like his doggy does when Niko splashes him with water. He got the puppy when Daddy took it from the man who had said he would never hit his animals. That man had made Niko cry because his words felt like there was something under his skin he couldn't reach and it was coming off him in pieces and it _hurt_.

Usually, Niko doesn't like the roll of thunder, but with the old woman next to him he's not afraid. She's sturdy, like a tree, and Niko likes trees. He stretches out his hand to touch her –

"Laren, he's here! On the roof!"

His father's voice cuts through the darkness, and Niko whirls around to see Jonas run up the stairs. "Niklaren Jonasson, what did we tell you about this!"

"Daddy, there's a storm coming!" Niko yells over the winds that are gaining strength. When his daddy reaches the top of the stairs, he's already scolding him. But he swipes him up into his arms and holds him tight, and Niko doesn't think he's angry. He wriggles in his father's arms, trying to catch a glimpse of the edge of the roof behind the broad back of the man holding him. "Daddy, the woman -"

But when he manages to look, the old woman is gone.

* * *

His parents take him to be tested for magic when he is four.

It is a futile test. His whole family already knows, and so do most of the farmers and breeders in their neighborhood and their little village. When he touches the mage's crystal ball it blazes like a supernova, temporarily blinding the mage and making Niko's eyes water. His father's shoulders hunch, and his mother has tears in her eyes. But she smiles – smiles oh-so-widely.

Niko has been showing signs of magic since the age of two; his toys move, lamps wink on and off when he's in the room. But he also cries a lot around certain people. His mother is a truthsayer, as well, albeit a weak one; it doesn't take her long to realize that it happens most when someone is bending the truth around him or even lying outright.

When the mage regains her sight, still blinking, she tells his parents to take him to Mistress Halida Hawkeye, a traveling seer who, coincidentally, is visiting the next town. His father refuses, at first, but then travels there with Niko because his mother insists.

Mage Hawkeye is neither old nor young, her back ramrod straight and her hair grey. Her beak-like nose makes her look like her namesake bird more than anything, and Niko cries when she pinches his chin with her strong hands and forces him to look at her.

They return home late at night because Niko's father refuses to spend a night in the city; Niko falls asleep in the cart and dreams of a sprawling city of buildings and a tower rising from the center of a valley.

* * *

"Aha!"

Niko freezes, his foot inches away from the ground.

"You've been hiding pretty well," a man says, his hair is grey but his shoulders are strong as Father's. However, when he kneels, he does it slowly and with creaking joints, and Niko thinks he's probably as old as Granpa.

"Wild thyme. For cleansing wounds, treating fungal infections and for cough and bronchitis." The man chuckles. "She would know at least ten other purposes for you, I bet."

Niko carefully sets his foot down beside the batch of tiny, violet flowers. The old man's kneeling now, eying the plant. His eyes are vividly green, and he shines with a silver light that makes Niko blink. The light is new. The man doesn't take any more notice of him, instead, he places his large hands onto the earth around the plant and closes his eyes. Colorful tattoos seem to move right under his skin, like vines, like plants, but what is even more intriguing right now is the aura he has. His silver light flows into the ground, branches out, warm and bright and reminding Niko of afternoon picnics in the forest, with his sister and his mother. And then… The plant seems to hum in appreciation. Niko watches, fascinated, as the light spreads–

"How often did I tell you? Don't let them order you around, you are the pack leader, they have to obey you! And where's Niko? He was supposed to feed the bitches!"

Niko's cousin on the other side of the wide mountain meadow grumbles softly at his uncle's rebuke.

Niko's concentration breaks, and the man is gone.

* * *

Sometimes, he sees things in his dreams.

Sometimes, the images are on the gleaming surface of the pond behind the house, when the sun is high and the blue sky reflects off its polished top. And mirrors hold entire stories, though they are less reliable: the pictures stretch and shift, sometimes, and sometimes seem to jump here and there. And it's impossible to glimpse the entirety of events from them because the future ripples, like the waves caused by a pebble dropped into the lake.

It's what Niko learns early: seeing something doesn't mean it will truly come to pass.

His aunt doesn't die in childbed.

Her baby does.

The winter is harsh, as predicted.

The summer storm comes unexpected, catching the farmers toiling to make their lives from the rocky mountain ground unaware and rendering large parts of their crops dead.

His mother believes him when he begs her to not stay in the inn at the market the one time they travel to the city together to buy new yarn for her loom; that same night, the inn burns down. The village elder refuses to believe him when he dreams about traders and worthless objects; incidentally, the goods they receive from the trader caravan that summer seem just fine – until they crack when exposed to heat. His uncle, who had refused to believe the dark predictions his nephew had made for his wife, now believes in his powers. But he never asks Niko for an opinion and, as long as Niko is there, refuses to visit.

Niko learns to be careful about what he shares, and to keep his silence.

* * *

(It's just _so much._ )

* * *

His mother's sewing room is blessedly empty.

He collapses against the wall in a corner, sliding down until his back bone hits the ground, and buries his head in his arms. In the silence, he breathes in; deeply, trying to calm himself. It is _everywhere,_ the silver shine of magic, or, at least, what he supposes is magic. At first, it was only in certain things, strong things, like when the village's chief mage called on the rain, or when the healer set Niko's broken wrist. But it became stronger; it showed him traces of magic in the earth, sky, in plants and in hand-crafted items. The smith probably used magic-infused steel, because the bands he used to repair Niko's father's plow glow. The protection stone above the door to his parents' home gives off a steady light, too. Sometimes, his mother does, when she has a vision. And even his father shines, on times, when other people's magic touches him. At first, Niko closed his eyes when he became overwhelmed by the bright, silver light. But when he closes his eyes, now, snippets and visions appear, glimpses of possible and impossible futures. It is overwhelming, and combined with his ability to see magic, it is worse: close to maddening.

Sometimes, it feels like Niko is losing his mind.

The silence of his mother's room is soothing. Niko breathes out again, already lighter, feels the tattoo of his heart beat against his ribs like the calming, steady beat of the loom…

The loom _is_ moving.

The shuttle glides through the warp threads, quick and steady. A silver-haired woman is leading it, she looks small but strong; and her fingers dart over the quickly growing cloth as she sings to herself softly. She has the silver light within her, too. It flows from her core through her hands into the material, silver lines merging into one and becoming something new.

Niko watches, entranced, not daring to breathe.

When she reaches an invisible mark her hands still and she stretches her back, still smiling. Then, her hands smooth over the newly created material, and – _it bends towards her._ She laughs, bell-like, and takes up the shuttle again.

"I'm sorry, I don't have as much time for you as I'd like to have…"

"There you are, Niko. Why are you sitting on the floor?"

His mother's voice shatters the spell, and the woman is gone.

* * *

"We have to send him to Karang, Jonas."

His father's back goes stiff all the way it usually only does when he is dealing with Ragnar, the man who buys their dogs and treats them badly.

"He's too young."

"He's old enough. Mage students at Lightsbridge may enroll as early as at the age of twelve, he's thirteen. You just don't want him to go."

"He shouldn't need to go. Just because you wanted to attend the university and couldn't doesn't mean he has to. We have teachers here, there are many home-schooled mages-"

"Jonas." Niko's mother is usually gentle, soft. But when it comes to it, her voice and will are steel. It reminds him of a willow: bending in the wind, yet strong and unbreakable. "You heard the seer. And you watch him: already now, he sees so much he has difficulties distinguishing between present and these bits and pieces of the futures he sees. He almost _drowned_ last week, for the God's sakes! His powers compare in no way to mine: he is a million times stronger. He needs to go to Lightsbridge, if only so he learns how to cope. If he returns, he will stay. If he doesn't, he wouldn't have taken your place, anyway."

Jonas bends his head, wordless, and yields.

* * *

The sun over the lake is hot, the air sweltering. In the midday sun, not even the pups feel the urge to move. Niko leans back until he feels the bark of the tree at his back and tries to remember the stories the trader caravan's mage told at the campfire when they passed the village last season when a flash of familiar silver catches his attention.

The skin of the woman sitting next to him is black.

Niko doesn't think he's seen something like that before. Everything in him itches to reach out and touch her – maybe she painted her skin? Maybe it feels differently? – but he refrains from doing so.

He can't touch either one of them, after all.

She gazes out over the lake with a longing in her eyes that he can _feel_ , deep, deep down in his bones. A longing as if the lake – the pond, really – was the vast sea, and the other side a world that, in no way, compared to his calm, quiet life on the farm in the mountains. The woman's dark, curly hair is streaked with silver and bound back tightly. She's wearing breeches and a violet tunic, and her hand is closed around a sturdy stuff.

The woman smiles, wistfully, and whispers, and her eyes yearn for the distance. "I wish…"

Niko wishes, too.

He just doesn't know for what exactly.


	2. II

**II.**

The University of Lightsbridge is a bustling, sprawling agglomeration of seminar and training rooms, libraries, laboratories, dormitories, eating halls and people; a single heart made up out of a myriad different veins, chambers and muscles. It is busy at all times of the day, including the night; with people walking purposefully to and fro and others, students, mostly, lingering in the hallways, waiting or just spending time. The eating halls are louder than even a tiny village's main square on a holy Sunsday, the seminar rooms bustle with activity and even the libraries are alive with the sound of rustling paper and scratching pens; it's like there is no place that is quiet; nowhere a person can seek solitude. It's the complete opposite of anything he has ever known.

It's overwhelming.

Niko stays overwhelmed for exactly three hours. In that time he manages to place his belongings in his dormitory room (he's sharing with a boy from Sotat that seems to have paper magic) and to find the building in which he hands in his enrollment papers and receives his student identification. And then he is sucked into a maelstrom of new students desperately trying to get along and fit in and old, weathered ones calmly steering the new ones into their designated paths.

And then his education begins.

Niko finds that he loves the excitement of learning, the structured classes that dominate his day, the bright atmosphere of the reading halls. There are people who share his passion for learning, but most of them focus on certain aspects of magic while his hunger is unquenchable and universal. Their magic is different than his, too. Niraua, the girl from Hatar that almost runs him over on the first day, her eyes unfocused and unseeing, hears voices on the wind. Rafe, his roommate, brings paper alive in the most fantastic and most mundane shapes. Delares and Damian, identical twins from the coast area, have glass magic, while Jumshida, a girl from Tharios, possesses academic magic, just like him. It's fascinating, intriguing. There is so much to see, so much to learn.

So Niko learns.

* * *

He barely has time to miss his parents, or his sister, or his dog.

But he dreams of home – calm mountain lakes and forests, and the sunset coloring the grey slate of the mountains in lush pink. Lightsbridge is a huge city in itself, full of people, fuller than anything he ever encountered before.

And he likes it.

Except when he doesn't.

* * *

The air is stuffy and hot. He can't breathe. There is nothing like the scent of the forest at dawn, or the earth after rain, here in the city. Just the odor of people and horses and other animals, of gutters, streets and carriages, and of magic in all variations: splendid in themselves, but, mixed up, burning and choking and clogging.

He's so hot. He's so cold. He wants to go home –

"Home is where the heart is," a woman whispers, so close he thinks he should be able to feel her warmth. Her voice is like a soothing melody. "You'll always be welcome here. This is your home, sweetheart. Don't listen to what the others say. Everyone has to find his own path. When I was a child, I didn't know where to go. But I found people who became my family, not by blood, but by choice. You will always have a place to return to, be sure of that. So go and find the rest of your family."

And then – he _thinks_ – the bed sheets straighten under her touch and cool, and the material suddenly is soft against his sensitive skin.

Niko falls asleep again, oddly soothed.

When he wakes again his fever has broken, and Niraua is asleep in the chair next to his bed.

* * *

Maybe fourteen is too young to live without parents, after all.

(He remembers that, later.)

* * *

"Magic patterns."

Professor Windsong – the mages who pass the qualification for teaching, and are given a position at the university, carry the title of Professor – gazes at his students from above the rims of his silver spectacles. He's not Niko's favorite professor, but he is a well of stories and songs Niko loves to hear again and again.

"You know what I'm talking about, I assume."

Jumshida, always eager to prove the extent of her knowledge, lifts her hand.

"Mages use already known pattern to structure spell-work and anchor it. With the pattern, it is possible to direct energy into the task at hand. A glass mage, for example, might use sand to direct energy into forming and leading the molten glass, laying out a pattern with it that is the fundament of whatever is supposed to be formed. An academic mage might use symbols and words of ink and parchment. Different types of magic possess different patterns, though some of the most basic magic can be performed using the same patterns. That is why, in the past, the people used to believe pentagrams were a symbol of the devil: because the first mages used it as a basis of their work, and the magic-less did not understand magic and feared it."

"Correct," the professor nods. "Why is it necessary for mages to study and know patterns by heart?"

Niko lifts his hand and grins at Rafe unrepentantly, who is rolling his eyes. Hard. Shida and Niko usually compete for the title of First in Class, and most of the time, they end up tied, anyway. Niraua smiles her tiny smile, while one of the twins – is it Dell or Dam, today? – is copying the notes from the board, while the other one – Dam? Dell? – is sleeping with open eyes. _Neat._ They have been working for two and a half years now to be able to form their magic well enough to use tools, and simple pentagrams. Seems like they'll start with the good stuff, now.

"The patterns direct the spells. A sloppy pattern – or a broken one, if, for example, another mage interrupts the formation – cannot hold the power needed for the spell. The energy might break loose, go out of control, and might end up injuring the caster, in the best case, and anyone in his surroundings, in the worst case."

"Correct. Now while you have learned-"

"I heard there are mages who do not need pattern, pentagrams and magical tools to use their powers," a voice says, a girl with long, dark and even hair and eyes as sharp as a spear.

"And you are?" Professor Windsong glares at her, his lips twitching into a sneer for the tenth of a second.

"Niva," the girl introduces herself, unperturbed, her voice absolutely flat. Niko has seen her on and off for the past year; she seems to keep mostly to herself and they only share Professor Windsong's classes. He never thought to talk to her before, much less wonder about her.

"Student mage Niva, you are referring to so-called ambient mages, those rare specimens of mages who can access their own, limited powers without the use of any patterns. Those mages usually are weak, so their work is confined to household chores and other simple, mundane tasks. Compared to us academic mages, they rarely are useful."

Something flashes over Niva's face, too quick for Niko to read, but then he _sees:_ Green vines, thorny briars, swallowing up human bodies and drinking their blood, writhing like a living mass of snakes, a rose with a single, crimson bud and a dangerous thorn –

"I do not agree," the girl says, her voice a myriad of thorns.

"How many ambient mages do you know?" The professor asks, fixing his gaze on her over the rims of his spectacles. "Because of course you would know at least one to be in the position to make such preposterous statements."

She doesn't answer.

"I thought as much," he says, dismissive. "As I said, ambient mages are practically useless."

Niko sees the rose burst into bloom, its green vines creeping over the benches and tables, surrounding the professor. Suffocating him and sinking thorns into him until blood trails down his sides in red, vivid streams –

Birds call out.

The world calms.

Niko's field of vision turns black as he loses consciousness.

* * *

He learns to shield.

He learns to pretend.

He learns to distinguish: the present, and the visions. To some things, he gets used to.

To others, he knows he never will.

* * *

The fire of the forge is red-hot and glowing, the blaze illuminating the corner of the otherwise shadowed smithy.

The dark-skinned woman is a smith-mage, he realized some time ago. And today, watching her work away at the red-hot iron without any protective garments, without any safety spells and patterns, the sudden realization hits Niko with the force of a blow of the heavy hammer she wields so effortlessly: _she is an ambient mage._ She needs neither patterns nor tools: everything comes from within herself. And it's – it's impossible. He can feel the strength within her, can see the silver glow her magic casts; strong enough to blind him. _All four of them are ambient mages._ But even more than that – and more than the anger at the university's casual dismissal of such power, and the people who wield it – Niko again is dumb-founded at the myriad of different powers that exist. He has been learning glass magic from the twins, and is already thinking of what to study next. But what the twins do with glass… It's not comparable to what this woman is doing with the cherry-red iron rod she is working with. She far exceeds them by age and experience, maybe it's that. Maybe it's also the difference in power he can sense.

Speechless, Niko watches as she creates the most beautiful, intricate iron rods, presumably to be used as window bars or fence posts. The fire roars and sweat rolls down her face as she takes the glowing metal into her hands. Niko gasps, realizing what she's done, too late, lurching forward –

She holds the burning-hot metal in her hands as if it were cool water.

"Can I help you with something?"

Niko whirls around. "I was just watching–"

Behind him, a broad man in what seems to be a charred, dusty and burnt talar like the ones the professors wear at official meetings, is watching him with eagle eyes.

"Watching?"

The man regards him, thoughtfully. The crown of his head is bald, but his hair is yet-black and falls down onto his shoulders in wild, wiry curls.

"The smith mage," Niko says, in a rush. "Does she work here? What's her name? How can she touch hot metal with her hands?"

"Interesting," the man muses. "Very interesting indeed."

The vision breaks.

* * *

Niraua drops into the bench Niko is already occupying with something in between a sigh of resignation and a huff of impatience.

"Oh the joy the beginning of a new semester brings."

Niko knows what she means: the hallways are crowded with new students. During the morning assembly he was barely able to meditate for all their bustling and nervous humming, and during lunch, the eating halls will be stuffy and over-filled.

"Doesn't it make you think back of the times when we were just like that?"

The Hataran girl smooths her knee-length tunic. "We never were that young. Impossible."

Niko likes Niraua's humor, dry and witty. These first weeks of a new semester – especially in fall – are hard for her: the wind carries all the voices of new and old, the halls are especially crowded, and the echoes linger.

"Only half a year left, huh?"

She looks over the heads of the students in front of them. Professor Starcounter hasn't arrived yet.

"Where will you go first, Niko? As a truthteller, I guess you'll find a position anywhere."

Niko shrugs. "I'd like to travel a while, first. I want to see Namorn, Oleg, all those places we only read about. Hatar, too." He throws her a sheepish smile that freezes on his face when she shakes her head.

"Don't go there, Niko."

 _Namorn._ They have been skirting the subject for a long time now, but he knows exactly what she means.

"Because of the Emperor?"

"You can't imagine the power he has."

 _He's just a man,_ he wants to say. _He's not even a mage._

"Why not stay here and teach? You love teaching, you have academic magic, you could still follow your own projects and do your own research, if you wanted. I'm sure Professor Windsong will gladly employ you."

"We still have time, Ni," he tells her, instead, both to placate her and to quench the feeling of uneasiness rising in his guts that appears whenever he thinks of traveling to Namorn. "And I want to leave the University. It's like a place full of overbred cats. Everyone's so quick to denounce any method or magic that does not fit into our preconceived notions of how it ought to be."

Something flashes in her eyes: a sentiment? A vision? The light that shifts as the entering professor passes by the windows?

"Think of it," she whispers, and the lecture begins.

For Niko, even if he only has half a year left until his mage exam, the future couldn't be much farther away. He forgets the conversation, as he easily forgets any similar one they might have had or yet will have.

* * *

He will regret it later, but he doesn't know that yet.

* * *

"Maybe it's about the company you keep," the man muses.

He's sitting on a thatched roof, reclining against the chimney loosely and looking down into a blooming garden. His dark hair is cropped short, and he is wearing a dark-green, cloak-like tunic. In the distance, a deep bell tolls the hour.

"What do you mean?" Niko asks. As usual, the man doesn't respond; none of them ever does. Niko has tried to talk to them more times than he can recount and never has he gotten any reaction. He is just an observer in his own visions.

(Or are they?)

Voices rise up in the afternoon heat, young ones, Niko thinks: a girl and a boy, arguing. A third voice chimes in, placating, another girl. They come into sight on the path that leads to the house with the garden, young children, perhaps twelve, four of them. Two boys, two girls. As they reach the cottage, one boy - the loud one, obviously - reaches out and pulls one girl's pigtails. Furious, she whirls around. The boy only grins, and makes sure he is safely out of her reach.

"Mila of the grain, what are they squabbling over this time," the man next to Niko sighs. "Can't they be quiet even for the quarter of an hour?" But instead of stepping up, he just watches from his perch, his silent chuckles proof that he is no more angry at the kids than at anything else.

Only when the other girl steps up, and the boy stumbles and almost bowls over head-first into the bed of flowers and herbs that lines the path, the man reacts.

"Oi! Watch your steps, brats!"

All four kids look up, sporting mirroring expressions of dread.

"If one of you touches my plants, I'll hang you in the well head-first and leave you there!" One of the girls gasps. "And now hurry, it's past dinner time and Dedicate Watersprout is waiting!"

The obnoxious boy is the only one who dares to grumble anything in response, and Niko thinks he hears a whispered _So why are you still on the roof, then._ He grins, and so does the plant mage after the four kids disappear in the cottage.

"Don't forget to wash your hands!" He hollers after them. Then, he drops back against the chimney and gazes down into the garden. His sigh is deep and weary, but not – not unkind.

"I don't really want to. But I doubt you wanted, and look what became of it. You loved us, didn't you? The same way I'll love those brats down there. It's the way of nature."

 _I guess_ , Niko thinks, and can't help smiling.

* * *

"Which name have you chosen?"

Niko answers, without hesitation.

"Niklaren Goldeye."

"Niklaren Goldeye. Receive the medallion that marks you as a mage, along with a new name by your choosing. Know that you bear the responsibility that power as yours brings now and forever, every hour, every moment. Do no harm. Lend help to those in need. Teach, and learn, and teach what you have learned."

The medallion gleams in the morning light, and Niko _sees._

* * *

"No pirate attack in the past thirty years."

The red-headed woman is standing on the west wall of the Winding Circle, staring onto the grey sea. She is heavy-set, but not overweight, and her red hair is twirled into a multitude of small braids that are fastened at the back of her head tightly.

"You taught me everything I know, you know. Well, everything that matters. I would be nothing without you."

Niko can feel the currents of the wind in the air, feel the breath of the ocean both past and present. He can see the silver magic weave through her, mixing with earth-green, cornflower-blue and copper-red. There is something like a smile on her face – this woman rarely smiles, he has learned, but he has also learned to read her expressions. Her features, now, show peace, wistful memory – and perhaps – perhaps nostalgia?.

"To storm winds, deep roots, threads well-spun and tempered steel," she says, and bows towards the sea, and suddenly her nostalgia becomes sorrow and her smile turns into a mask of grief. "To discipline. To you, my teacher."

He can feel the winds whisper around her, following her as they usually do, like untrained puppies follow their mother. Trying to soothe her, to ease her pain. He feels the ache, the pull, the wind's desperate wish to dry her tears.

They are ambient mages, all four of them. These four people have been with him since his earliest visions, since his childhood, since he can remember. The smith mage, the plant mage, the weather mage and the thread mage, three women and a man. He knows them, knows them as well as he knows his friends and knows himself. He knows about their lives, their families, their powers. He knows that the smith mage loves women, that the plant mage's bark is as bad as his bite but that he never directs the latter at the children under his care. That the thread mage must be the ruler of a country and that the weather mage has two children who are very unlike her, but whom she loves fiercely.

Niko knows them, knows about their lives – but he doesn't even know their names.

Not for the first time, Niko looks at the dark-haired woman that is so familiar to him and thinks, _who are you?_


	3. III

**III.**

"Everyone is leaving," the smith mage whispers to herself.

Contrary to her words, Niko cannot discern any packed bags in her surroundings. She is just standing there, watching something – maybe someone – maybe just the sun set beyond the windows of the house. Her left hand, absent-mindedly, strokes her right one. It is covered with a sheet of metal that flexes when she does, coppery and liquid-looking and yet apparently solid and strong. Has he ever seen that on her before?

Before he can finish the thought, she starts walking.

Niko follows her through a house: through a small, but bright and well-stocked kitchen, into the dining room that looks clean and comfortable and that holds echoes of evenings spent in laughter and beloved company. Through a winter garden that has plant magic saturating every plant in it along with the very air they breathe, miniature trees and potted plants lovingly kept. There is a loom in the next room, and baskets full of threads of silk, wool and flax. On the upper floor, a small library sports a window seat, and the shelves host everything from travel logs to children's books. And in every single room, the silver sheen of magic is omnipresent, so clear Niko can almost _feel_ it. In every room, the woman stops briefly, emotions bright in her dark eyes. And then they walk downstairs again, Niko trailing behind her invisibly and unheard, and into the back of the house where a smithy is attached to the building. The hearth is cold.

The woman sits, heavily, and buries her face in her hands. Her whisper is choked. "Everyone will be gone."

Niko hovers, feeling her loneliness like his own. Wonders whether he should touch her, put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. For a second, his hand hangs in the air, undecided.

 _Why –_

The metal mage drops her hands and laughs, harsh, but not unkindly. He did not expect anything else - Niko knows that she is incapable of being unkind. He has been watching her for years.

"Listen to you," she chides herself, gently. "As if you weren't the one who left the last time." Her smile is soft. "I know what you meant now, _saati._ "

Her whisper remains with Niko when the vision breaks.

 _Is it better to leave or to be left behind?_

* * *

"I'll be leaving."

She is drinking her tea, dropping the words into their conversation like pebbles into the sea. In the window behind her, the images flash past Niko: Jumshida in the robes of a great mage, her collar carrying golden insignias. Silver lines in her hair.

"You're going back?" Dell asks, and Dam echoes: "To Tharios?"

She sets down her cup, measured. "Yes. I received my medallion. There's nothing left for me now."

Niraua doesn't say anything. Maybe her eyes darken even more, it's hard to tell; she is so withdrawn these days Niko barely knows her anymore. But Rafe looks devastated – he's been secretly in love with Shida for years, Niko knows, and he feels for his friend.

"But we said we were going to travel together-"

"You said that." Jumshida avoids his eyes, and Niko also knows she has known about his feelings for some time now, too. "I – I can't. I have to go back. The people gave me so much. It's time..."

To return, and to bind herself to them once again? To give back something? How can one balance ledgers that are not meant to be balanced in the first place? How can she still believe in Greater Powers when she has seen the way the world is?

Niko doesn't know.

"You can't change what has been held onto for the past centuries, Shida," Dell cuts in, again, and the fact that Dam doesn't complete his sentence says enough. "You can't fight the system all by yourself."

Rafe is looking more and more desperate. "Give it some more time! Teach here, in the meanwhile, they'll gladly take you. Find some students. Build a base –"

"No!" Shida's hands are shaking, the only outward sign that she is upset. "I won't wait anymore. I won't be patient anymore. It's one thing to have an ancient religion. It's another one to discriminate against people because of their birth. I won't stand by anymore, because nothing will change if nobody tries because he thinks that it's not the time yet. I might not achieve anything. But I'll try, at least."

There's really nothing more to say to that.

* * *

It's night out on the plains.

There are mountains in the North, rising like guardians over the grasslands. They spark a bout of something Niko had almost forgotten. _Oh._ Since he began his studies at Lightsbridge, he has visited his parents at least twice a year. His homesickness that was particularly bad when he was twelve now has long disappeared. But when he looks at the mountains that were his birthplace, he suddenly wants to go back there again.

 _Oh._

He focuses on his close surroundings. The little fire is carefully placed into a bowl of scraped earth and lined with round stones. It flickers, casting light and shadows alike onto the man's features. It's the plant mage, Niko thinks, not yet in his dark-green robes but dressed for travel. Two ponies are dozing silently in a short distance.

Under a small, floating globe of light (a stone?), he is pouring over maps, muttering something now and then. Niko watches with him, basking in the silence that is broken by the calls of hunting owls and the rustling of the wind in the grass.

Finally, the man rolls up his maps and places them in a water-tight pouch carefully. He stretches his arms over his shoulders and sighs, softly, and then closes his eyes. Niko feels his magic surge as he, for a second, becomes an incandescent silver flame. In response, he feels a circle blaze, most probably a protective spell set up around the man's campsite. Then, the magic fades again, and the man settles down for then night. In the light of the moon and the small fire, he looks…

He looks so _young._

It hits Niko with the force of a misdirected hit-spell: they are his age, now, perhaps even a bit younger. It was hard to tell with the smith-mage, due to her dark skin and foreign features, but it was no less true for her than for this man. The ghosts of his childhood are very real ghosts of his adolescence, now.

"Good night," Niko whispers, softly, suppresses the urge to carefully smooth the plant mage's hair like a child's, and closes his eyes.

* * *

In the end, it's only Rafe and Niko who set out for their journey.

Jumshida goes back to Tharios, where she received a position as a scribe in the Mage's Society. "For now," she says and laughs, and Niko sees her reflection in the mirror behind them, again, all decked out and in full regalia. Del and Dam stay, too – one of them because of a woman, what a surprise, and the other one because of the first. They give Niko a set of differently sized, unbreakable glass vials as farewell gift, along with a ton of jokes and good advice. "Who would have thought that Mister Clean-and-Fancy would ever want to travel the world!" Niko glares at them in mock threat, carefully packs the vials while already trying to determine which of his herbs and powders should go into which, and hugs both of them fiercely.

Niraua – well.

They were so close, once, Niraua being the first person Niko decided would be his friend. But nowadays she is jumpy, her temper flaring like sudden storms and abating just as quick. He thinks it's the voices – she's always been able to hear voices on the wind, and, because her parents hadn't recognized it early enough, had almost been cast out of her village. But she had learned to cope pretty well. He thought she was fine, she had been throughout the past years. Only recently, she had secluded herself while seeking closeness, at the same time, had laughed and become angry in quick succession, had joked and fallen into pensive silence all at once. She and Niko had been inseparable, once, to the point of even spending nights in each other's rooms against the rules. They had been best friends, never more, telling each other everything, not holding back. Now it feels like she is holding back on him, and in return…

In return, Niko just doesn't know how to talk to her anymore.

The oddest thing: when he tries to scry her future, he comes up with nothing. That's never happened before.

"Talk to me," he begs her, and she turns her head away. In the window, he catches her reflection; she looks like she might cry. But when he leans forward to touch her, she shrinks back.

It… It _hurts._

 _It's over,_ a voice whispers, somewhere within him. _It's too late._

Where are his visions when he needs them? Where is the truth when everything is falling apart?

She doesn't touch him when he comes to see her in her dorm room, one last time, to tell her goodbye. She just turns her head away and refuses to look at him. When Niko's almost out of the gates again, however, she comes running after him, throwing her arms around him from behind and holding him so tight he yelps in pain.

And then, before he can say anything, she's gone.

* * *

He will see so many things on his journey.

He will see both people and places, and so many glimpses of the future that counting them will forever be futile. But he will never see Niraua again.

He doesn't know that yet, though. And the world is so large. Not always glowing with magic. Sometimes horrifying, frightening, terrible. But beautiful, nevertheless.

Each new place – each new country, every new culture and their strange customs – he takes in. Some are familiar: he has seen them before, in his visions and in his dreams. In bits and pieces. Some are completely knew, unknown, fascinating and intriguing. The people he meets are a colorful lot, each one unique. He finds friends, antagonists, teachers, students.

Still, no matter how beautiful the country and how kind the people – how intriguing the magic – Niko never stays in one place longer than half a year.

 _(What are you still searching for, mage?)_

* * *

She is weaving, again.

Niko has seen the thread mage do needlework and embroidery, sewing, spinning and weaving. But the latter is the one thing she loves most.

She us younger than he's ever seen her, just like the others. Her blond hair, usually made up into elegant, intricate patterns and fastened by jeweled pins and satin bows, is messily swept back and pinned up with simple copper needles. Her dress is equally simple; it makes her look even younger. Her eyes are closed.

Both the shuttle in her hand as well as the thread wound around it shine in a soft silver, it flows through her, connected to the core of her being. The tapestry she is weaving is not even halfway finished; but her concentration is completely focused on it. Trance-like, she ferries the shuttle back and forth in a dance of nimble fingers and well-practiced ease.

Niko, hypnotized, watches.

The thread she uses is plain, creamy material, silk, perhaps. And yet, despite the single color, the tapestry gleams with soft colors: silver, copper, green, blue. She never seems to change the color, but the longer Niko watches, the more a picture emerges. It is like it always was there and his eyes simply needed time to adjust. Then, suddenly, he can see it: a white rose bush twines up along the walls of a small cottage. A matching one in blood-red is set on the other side of the house. In the distance, a column of smoke rises; the sky is clear and blue. In the distance, the ocean blinks.

 _A city of towers and spires and winding_ _paths –_

A circle surrounds the house.

Four symbols are set into it, evenly spaced apart. A flame, a lightning bolt. A plant. A spindle. They blaze up in color and magic as soon as they are finished; and Niko, dumbfounded, feels invisible threads stretch out into the distance: a thread of silk, a green vine, a bolt of lightning, a wire of gold. It grows and stretches, reaches, _reaches –_ across seas and plains and mountains – and then he feels it _settle._

The tapestry comes alive.

Niko blinks, unable to say or even _think_ anything.

And wakes up.

* * *

The lush, green valley is surrounded by the harsh, craggy peaks of a near impenetrable mountain range. The only reason Niko is here is because he caught glimpses of the pass, passable only for a few days each year, and followed his visions – on a hunch.

It could have gone wrong. He found himself stuck in dead ends after following his visions often enough in the past.

He is glad his rash decision to follow something nobody else could see has cost him his travel companions (Rafe would have gone with him, ever-trusting, ever-loyal, but Rafe settled down a long time ago, Gods, how long has he been on his own already now?), because the weather conditions force him to seek shelter in a cavern for three nights, and the booming crack of avalanches is not reassuring.

In hindsight, it is one of the stupidest things he ever did: wandering a mountain, a storm one step before and one step after him.

But – the valley.

Green, beautiful, equally sheltered from the weather as well as from human interaction by the surrounding peaks. The tribe of Northmen living there has weathered skin and bleached-blonde hair, very pretty daughters and strong alcohol, and after an initial moment of suspicion they realize Niko is an academic mage and greet him exquisitely politely.

He might never have noticed anything amiss if he hadn't observed the woman "talking" to a goose one afternoon, and had stepped closer to investigate.

History and culture of the Northern Tribes alike unravel as he digs deeper and deeper into the clan's history; a past of carefully cultivating and guarding magic heritage; a present of carefully secluded but by no means disconnected life. However, it is also a life of segregation: while those who would pass as academic mages in Lightsbridge are revered and respected, those with ambient magic perform the lowest labors. People born with nature's magic have no place within the clan. They live as social outcasts and slaves, and the life of a flock of geese is valued higher than theirs.

When Niko realizes what it is that he sees, he cannot contain his sentiments. Maybe the poison he swallows shortly after his outburst really was due to his lacking familiarity with the valley's flora. Maybe it was just well-placed poison; whatever the cause, he survives – just barely. The chief's trust in him vanishes. The reputation of the woman is damaged irreversibly. Niko tries to explain himself to her, over and over, and keeps failing.

 _It's_ _my fault, my fault alone._

"I am so sorry. I should just have stuck to my own business."

She shakes her head, completely unperturbed on the outside, but her fingers are shaking.

"Don't say that. I am glad, actually. I couldn't have stayed here for much longer."

"Where will you go?" He asks, heart-sick for her. Why do children always have to leave their families? She is barely younger than him, but still.

She shrugs, almost carelessly. "My grandmother was one of our travelers. She told me about a place in the South, where the Great Lake kisses the land. They worship the Circle of Life. She said they accept people like me. And I've never seen the ocean, before."

 _Winding Circle._

He has heard of the temple before, they are, after all, the University's fiercest rivals when it comes to magical education. But Lightsbridge's professors only ever talked about it when it was absolutely necessary, and always seemed very… blasé about it. Niko hasn't liked the casual arrogance with which university mages discarded ambient mages in the past, and he is starting to realize why.

"Would you accept me as your escort?" He finds himself asking, and from her glance he knows she is as surprised as he is.

That way, Niko visits Winding Circle for the first time.

* * *

First he thinks it is a peculiar bout of home-sickness.

The spires of the astronomy tower are achingly familiar, the red stone that seems infused with heat and is warm to the touch, no matter the time of the day or the year. The sight that stretches out before him, all the way to the mountains, green, rolling hills, golden fields, the blue band of the river.

Then, he wonders: does he miss Lightsbridge, or the mountains of his childhood?

And then: is he dreaming, or seeing?

And then, there, the woman is.

The First, the one Niko saw for the first time when he was four years old. The storm dancer. The old lady. The girl.

His weather mage is something in between, not yet a woman, not quite a child, anymore. Her spectacles are slightly tilted, her skirt and shawl ruffled from the winds dancing around the tower, and her eyes are unfocused and lose themselves in the distance.

 _Lightsbrigde. She's at the university._

Something that feels very much like joy and a little bit like something else flash though him, undistinguishable. Inexplicable. Is he proud because she studied – studies – will study at the place he considered his home once? Or because he studied where she is – will be – was?

He needs some time to realize that the other thing he feels so painfully is sorrow.

There is no storm at the horizon, not this time. But the winds up here are strong, ruffle her skirts and Niko's cloak, tug at her shawl and make her braids dance. Her face is peaceful as she stands there, her eyes closed, her hands braced on the wall. She is muttering to herself, softly.

"Chicken stew for dinner, _again_."

It is so mundane it makes him laugh.

"And the gardeners are fertilizing the fields." Her nose crinkles. "Western winds today, huh?"

Her eyes still are closed.

"Professor Clearwater and Professor Mirrorglass are fighting," she then remarks, chuckling, and Niko strains his ears but can't hear anything. "They'll never agree on anything-"

Suddenly, her eyes fly open and she gasps.

"They are here!"

The smile that spreads over her face is wider than anything he observed on her before. She scrambles to gather up her bag. Her skirt, when she darts towards the door, gets caught on a stone outcropping along the wall, she frees it, impatiently, and takes the stairs faster than she usually does.

"Why didn't they tell me they were coming?"

Niko remains, staring after her with a growing realization.

* * *

The weather mage hears voices on the wind.

 _Niraua._

When Niko goes to see his oldest friend, on his next visit to Lightsbridge, she is gone.

She didn't even leave a message for him.

* * *

He meets them on his third visit.

"You studied at Lightsbridge, too."

Niko usually is more eloquent than that, but when he rounded the corner he had to dodge a small flock of chicken and almost stepped into a patch of green beans, and the dedicate that sprouted from the ground just behind the beans looks like she is ready to kill him for his carelessness. She has short, close-cropped and straight hair and dark eyes – and he knows her, has seen her before.

"Niva, right?"

She glares. "Dedicate Rosethorn. And who in Mila's green hands are _you_. I can smell the stink of Lightsbridge on you."

"Niklaren Goldeye," he introduces himself. "I went to the temple gardens to find someone to teach me about ambient plant magic. Dedicate Crane directed me here."

She doesn't curse, but it is close. "That–! Unbelievable." Her habit rustles menacingly as she whirls around. "I don't have time for that. Find another person to press your arrogance at being a university-certified mage onto."

For a second, Niko sees: she looks just the same as she did when they were younger. Except for the fact that her hair is short, now, and the green-silver power residing deep within her is clearly visible. It flows through her and into the ground, like roots it traces through her entire magic and anchors her to the ground they are standing on, and Niko isn't sure whether to admire her or to fear her. Her power must be immense. He'd very much like to see her work.

 _Cold stone, doors clanging shut. A city of grey, grey, grey, empty and dead. A tree, magical, splendid, filled with immeasurable power –_

He shakes off the flashes with difficulty. "Maybe I could offer you something to make the trouble worthwhile –"

"Why does the lot of you always think that you have the Gods' gift to grant to those you regard as the lesser people?" She snaps back over her shoulder. "Go away. I have weeding to do."

"Rose?" Another dedicate in the rich, earth-green habit of the Dedicates of the Earth Gods steps out of the second workshop, the curtains in front of it parting for her without her needing to do anything.

 _Thread magic._

His rush of exhilaration is only damped slightly when he realizes that she, for sure, is not the thread mage from his visions. Her hair is red-and-gold, not golden, and her face is entirely different. But _maybe_ …

She stops short when she sees Niko, and her smile is warm. "Oh, hello. And you are?"

He introduces himself.

"Dedicate Lark," she answers, in response. Her eyes twinkle. "Crane sent you? I'm sorry to hear that."

Rosethorn huffs in disdain. She has not gone away.

Niko shrugs. "I would have liked to learn about ambient plant magic. I have nothing to offer for it, except my knowledge."

She looks at him in a way that makes him think of his grandmother, before she died: unbearably kind. "You don't always have to offer something in exchange for something else, you know."

"But," he protested. "I could recompense you differently, I guess, but…"

"No," she says, and her gentle voice is firm. "Some things can only be given away freely."

He just stares as the words sink in, stares and – _Mountains and sea. The feeling of spun wool, a house full of laughter, why, oh why is it always me who stays behind –_

Niva – no, _Dedicate Rosethorn_ – clears her throat. She manages to make even that sound condescending.

"I apologize," Niko says, sincerely. "I didn't think."

"I'm not going to talk to him," Rosethorn declares, and there must have been a conversation between her and Lark that he didn't notice before because Lark just smiles.

"Maybe I can answer some of your more general questions?"

"Lark!"

"Oh, would you?" Niko beams. "That would be amazing."

Rosethorn huffs and stomps out into the garden and out of sight.

"She'll be with us soon," Lark promises, cheerfully. "Let's go inside."

* * *

Over the course of weeks, and many cups of sweet-scented tea, they become friends. Even Rosethorn begins accepting his company, grudgingly.

"So where will you be journeying next?" Lark asks, one evening, her smile a shade darker than normal.

"I don't know," he tells her, thoughtfully. "I haven't made plans yet."

Lark's smile brightens.

"Stupid university mages," Rosethorn grumbles, and refills his cup. "Unable to make up their mind."

Lark shoots her a warning glance. Niko just shrugs, and smiles.

He only stays a few weeks longer, until the road starts calling him again. But there is a change in the pattern, a difference to his travels from the past.

His roads keep carrying him back to Winding Circle.

* * *

Every time, it feels like coming home.


	4. IV

**IV.**

 _Niko._

The voice that reaches out to him is almost soundless, the ghost of an echo; the echo of a sentiment. A touch, a caress, so soft he barely even feels it.

 _There you are. Where have you been this long?_

There is reproach in the voice, and also – relief. Gladness. Familiarity.

 _I'm glad I found you before the end. You always were my best friend. Good bye, Niko._

And sorrow, and an echo of desperation that has turned into acceptance. A glow, a light that he _knows_. Familiar, achingly so, the heart and soul of someone he knew and loved and lost –

 _NIRAUA!_

But her echo doesn't linger.

Neither does she.

* * *

He needs two months to track down his former best friend's last whereabouts.

Every step is like walking backwards a street he has known by heart a long time ago. It ought to be familiar, and perhaps even is. But everything looks different, nonetheless, and he wonders –

She left Lightsbridge and Karang years ago. Why did he never wonder what she was doing? How she was? How is it that sometimes, people can be lost so easily?

The university's records of Niraua Whispervoice touch on her work and her home, her breakdowns, her frequent visits to a mind healer. Until she disappears from them without a trace, _presumed dead._ Niko tracks down Del and Dem, the twins he was friends with so long ago. They barely recognize each other: the twins have grandchildren, already, respectable lives and homes and work. Niko has... what does Niko have? He refuses to dwell on it. The reunion is lively and yet strained by all the things that separate them, he can see them exchange glances, the questioning looks they throw him. Rafe, they tell him, moved to Tharios some time ago, and he and Jumshida finally got together. Why didn't they invite him to their wedding? The twins exchange glances again, wordless communication, and Niko turns away and doesn't press them for answers.

He never needed anyone. Not a home, not a family. Not even friends.

This, finally, is what his life has led to.

The place he finally finds her in is a small, poorly built hut deep in the forest, hidden away from prying eyes and even accidental visitors. The door opens with a creaking sound. It makes him flinch.

Her body –

Niko stumbles out of the hut and is violently sick in the bushes.

The people in the next village, both afraid and disdainful, tell him the story of the strange woman who came to live with them and grew a bit more mad every month. They chased her out, in the end, because she couldn't do any job, couldn't stop moaning and whispering and screaming about voices and visions.

"She was always talking about things she couldn't know," the village eldest says, drawing the god circle on his chest. "She was a witch."

 _Of course,_ Niko wants to tell them, to shout, to _scream. She was a mage! She heard voices on the wind! Of course she knew things nobody else would have known, for the God's sakes, why would that be something to fear?_

But he keeps his temper in check, even if he wants to hurl the man into the next wall and watch him bleed.

There are letters in her hut, carefully hidden away in water-tight skins. She must have been less mad than the villagers wanted to make him believe, or the letters were older already. There are many of them, from many stages of her life. Niko reads them with growing dread, realizing all the things he hadn't seen, despite the fact that he saw so much. Her hurt, her loneliness. The overwhelming force of her powers.

 _You left her to die._

She never blames him, in those letters. She only wishes for his happiness. It is the most unselfish thing he ever heard and saw, and he feels like the most arrogant and selfish person in the universe.

 _He wants to see the world, and I wish for him to find his happiness if he cannot find it here._

"She could see things, too," a little boy whispers at him when he comes to the village the last time, to buy provisions for his journey. "She told me stories. She always knew the best ones."

 _Maybe he will come back, one day._

He burns down her little hut with her inside, a raging pillar of flames for the only girl that ever meant more to him but he was too close to to realize. And then he leaves, and never returns.

* * *

At Winding Circle, Lark greets him with her customary warmth and kindness, and Rosethorn is as sharp-tongued and disdainful as ever. Dedicate Crane's greenhouse is finally finished; she rants for evenings on end, about proper seasons and spent water and earth. The temple's best smith-mage visits, one day. Niko is floored to realize it is Frostpine, the man he met in his visions, years ago, and who seemed to be able to see him. He spends hours with the man at the forge, asking questions and watching. He also spends hours on hours with other mages, soaking up the ambient magic they use so effortlessly. He helps out in the mirror rooms. He gives lessons.

He tells nobody about Niraua. It's his secret – his burden.

His shame.

He breaks down one afternoon, overwhelmed by the force of his visions once again, it's a war, somewhere, a king is being killed while his whole court stands by and watches, there is blood everywhere and the stench –

He would have gotten up immediately after waking up in the Rooms of Healing, but Lark corners him.

She forces him to sleep, and eat. She's so small, and she is nothing like Niraua. But when she scolds him, backed up by Rosethorn who tries very hard to pretend she doesn't care, she seems so _large_. But his dreams are more exhausting than ever. He dreams of Niraua sitting at his bedside, telling him to take care of himself, forcing willowbark tea on him. Smiling at him from the other side of the table. Jabbing her elbow into his side, demanding his attention. Reading a book, utterly focused, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair around and around and around.

He can see her, the way she was, before he left and she lost herself to the voices and pictures on the wind –

"It's okay," Lark whispers when he wakes up shivering and hoarse. "It's okay, Niko. You are safe."

She is kind, and warm, and he so desperately wants to share his burden. He is desperate enough to not care with whom it is, and what it will do to her, only wants the pressure and the visions and the dreams to disappear.

So he tells Lark.

She cries, because she is kind and patient and unselfish, so unlike him. And maybe he does, too. And she doesn't say _you did nothing wrong._ She doesn't say _it's not your fault._ She just sits with him, holds him, watches over his sleep when he floats away again, her charms for dreamless sleep mingling with Rosethorn's tea with the same magic in it. It doesn't make his actions right, or the burden easier. But it makes it bearable, marginally more so. Niko falls asleep and doesn't dream, for the first time in what feels like centuries.

Two days later, he rises and begins his travel preparations.

Lark smiles says nothing. And Rosethorn huffs and puffs, and ignores him for the rest of the day.

When he leaves, he finds a parcel of his favorite tea in his bag, carefully wrapped in a warm cloak that is bespelled against the weather.

* * *

Traveling always had been his first love.

 _(Or had it?)_

Niklaren Goldeye never needed a place to return to, no matter if he could have had it or not. People always had been waiting for him – his father, Niraua, the university – but he had never felt it necessary to return.

Now, knowing Lark and Rosethorn are waiting at Winding Circle, ready to welcome him back whenever he might return – he finds an entirely new world in it.

What has changed? He can't say.

 _I'm glad,_ a voice whispers, and Niko closes his eyes.

And then opens them again, determined, and continues on.

* * *

This time of the year there aren't many travelers on the road to Irod.

When Niko stops at the inn, he gets a room for himself that even sports a decent wash basin. The inn is full of people and their gossip. Rumor has it that traveling through Emelan's North is finally safe again, and that the new Empress Berenene of Namorn has escaped a marriage kidnapping. Not wanting to stay up too long Niko goes back to his room early, already planning the next step of his journey.

There is a blond girl sitting in the corner, maybe thirteen years old. She is wearing a dress that speaks both of luxury and nobility. Her knees are tucked up under her chin, her arms are wrapped around herself; she looks tiny, fragile and terribly scared. She is talking to herself, softly, and Niko has to lean forward to understand her.

"I'll go crazy."

There is terror in her eyes, desperation all over her face.

"When the smallpox leaves Zodkin and they come to rescue me, I'll be raving mad. And nobody knows I am here, anyway."

She has almost nothing in common with the old lady at the loom, or the mother reassuring her child, or even with the teenage girl carrying oh-so-many responsibilities and trying to be perfect. Still, despite the flickering light and darkness, he recognizes her instantly.

The girl rocks forward and backward, her arms slung around herself.

" _If only I could catch the light in something!_ "

There are no tears in her eyes, just heartbreaking terror.

Niko yanks his bag up onto his shoulder again and dashes out of the room, only stopping to yell at the innkeeper to keep the money.

* * *

He should have known better than to storm off without a second thought. How old is he again?

The smallpox hasn't reached Hatar yet, maybe never will.

Sometimes, he hates the visions and images he sees.

* * *

He is washing his face in the small basin of his guesthouse room, traveling back to Summersea from Ganar, when his eyes catch something in the mirror.

There is water everywhere.

Niko never was good with ships. He manages to stay on his legs, just so, but he has spent days hanging over the railing in the past, ill with sea sickness. Here, the movement of the waves is regular and almost soft, so different from being on a ship.

Maybe that is because he isn't on a ship.

She's adrift in the water, clinging to a rectangular box made from sturdy wood and covered with protection spells. It's a trader's _suraku_ , he can see, traders usually don't share their knowledge with the non-traders they so impolitely call _kaqs._ But he has encountered more open-minded trader families, now and then. (And helped them enough that they thawed somewhat, towards him.) She's alone on the ocean, clinging to a box, no ship in sight and no land, either. Her lips are parched and bloody from where she must have bitten them, and there is dried salt clinging to every pore of her skin, giving her the appearance of a glittering ghost.

The metal mage.

She is almost dozing on top of the survival box, her fingers clamped into it for fear of letting it go. She looks dangerously exhausted, probably dehydrated, too, and her eyes…

There is no hope in them, no will to live.

 _No._

Niko won't let her die like this –

And then he's back in his room, staring at the mirror, water dropping from his face onto the floor.

* * *

This time, he stops to think.

What is he supposed to do? He can't say which ocean she is adrift on, or if she even is. Or will be, or was? Maybe she is already dead?

 _She can't be._

They can't be dead. They must be out there, maybe as children, maybe as old people. They _are_ out there, he is convinced. And oh, he just wants to see them, all four of them. He wants to learn their names and their stories, wants to watch their lives unfold. He wants to learn where they are right now, and what the Living Circle has in store for each one of them.

Niko refuses to believe that they, who have been such a large part of his life until now, will never be more than ghosts in his visions.

So the first step, he guesses, is to actually find them.

* * *

So he changes.

The seeds that had been planted by Niraua's death continue to grow. He is restless when he stays in a place for too long, but he learns to cope. Winding Circle remains an exception, and he is glad for it. But he also leaves the temple, again and again, no matter how often he returns.

Still, it is a different kind of journey he undertakes nowadays.

A journey with a goal, not for the mere sake of traveling. Sometimes he wonders how it has taken him almost fifty years to realize that a journey can be about finding something, not just for the sake of journeying itself.

 _Are you still seeking, seer?_

* * *

He finds her.

The weather mage.

Trisana Chandler, merchant daughter, thirteen years old.

She doesn't even know about her magic yet, or that she might once become one of the strongest weather mages in the world.

He almost doesn't recognize her, at first; at first, she is just a hurdle on his search for his four ghosts. He's passing through Stone Circle in Capchen on his way to Winding Circle, desperate to see Lark and Rosethorn. He has no time for delays, every day he spends might be the one day his ghosts disappear. So he glares angrily at the girl that they want him to escort to Winding Circle. What does she think she is doing, throwing around hailstones the size of children's fists, mages ought to control their powers, and didn't the Dedicate Superior say she had been tested?

And then, he _sees_ her. And realizes.

The relief roaring through him, mingled with the nameless feeling of _finally._ , catches him by surprise. Not knowing what else to do, he snaps a question at her, and the girl responds by retreating into herself. He feels ashamed of himself immediately. But it takes everything he has to stop himself from hugging her. And she keeps glaring so angrily, so scared of rejection. He will take her to Winding Circle and show her that there is no need to despise people, that there are kind ones, too. Teach her to control her powers–

He can't teach her.

The thought stuns him. Why hasn't he thought about this before? He, who always prides himself in seeing everything, hasn't seen _this: he is not a weather mage._ But maybe he can teach her the basics? Until he finds a mage whose power is better suited to instruct her. It is his duty, anyway, to care for her until someone with similar powers is found. Isn't it?

So… _maybe_.

So he will take her to Winding Circle, and see where they go from there. She needs to find a place to put down roots, Rosethorn would say. Maybe she doesn't need to be saved from death, like the thread mage and the metal mage, maybe the plant mage is fine, as well. Maybe he can just…

* * *

Maybe that is the point of his visions.

Maybe he is just supposed to help these children find their happiness.

* * *

It is strangely easy with the boy.

The plant mage.

He's a criminal, a street rat.

 _Great._

Niko laughs and laughs at the vision of the court room, the seal of Sotat emblazoned on the wall behind the judge, the judge clearly identifiable by the name tag on his desk. The coat of arms of the city – Hajira – blinks at him from the guard's uniform sigils.

 _Rose will have a field day with him._

Because it's clear, isn't it? This, at least, makes sense. The boy is a plant mage. Rosethorn is the strongest plant mage Niko's ever met – like a living tree, ancient and power-filled – and she'll probably agree to teach him.

If he finds the boy.

If he really comes to Winding Circle, and decides to stay.

If Niko's visions are accurate.

He never liked big cities, and Hajira is no exception. On his way through the streets, he's nearly pick-pocketed by a street rat, he almost manages to catch him but the kid's too quick to get a good look at him. Niko decides against tripping him and lets him go, intent on reaching the court house. Something in his guts tells him that he will meet the plant mage there.

He could be wrong, but _still._ He has to try.

He has to wait two nights more, has to spend two more days in boring court sessions carefully watching the street gangs members being brought before justice. On the third day a boy walks in, black hair and green eyes defiance in his entire body, and Niko _knows._

 _Finally._

Briar Moss is – a street rat. Oh, Rosethorn will hate him. And love him. He doesn't need any visions to see _that._ He's also easy to bait. Niko doesn't think the boy could get away without him noticing, and he also doesn't think he _wants_ to run. But for better or worse.

"I believe there is a dedicate in Winding Circle who has been able to grow vegetable and fruit – even trees – inside a building," he remarks, over dinner and very casually. And sees the boy's eyes flare up in interest.

 _Jup, it's him._

* * *

It comes, like his visions promised.

"It's the smallpox," the sailors tell him when he asks for the reason of their refusal. "We won't sail into Zakdin as long as the smallpox rages."

Of course, he knew that already.

"Drop me off, then. I need to go there."

Niko shudders at the thought of a city flooded by an illness. Dead on the street, rats and dogs eating the bodies, the stink of excrements and rot – It reminds him of wars, real ones and the ones he'd only seen, of dreams of catastrophes and very real devastation.

 _You need to find her,_ he tells himself sternly, ignoring the small shudder passing through his heart. _She's the last one._

"Why are you going to Zakdin, anyway," the captain asks, suspicious. "Are you one of those godless treasure hunters out for loot in a dying city?"

Niko barely listens. "Something like that."

The captain spits out disdainfully.

"And here I was, thinking those clothes were clothing a honorable man."

Sandrilene fa Toren sleeps for three days and nights, awakening screaming and weeping again and again.

Niko stays at her bedside the whole time, but he doubts she realizes it.

* * *

The last one of them.

It feels like the end.

He hears of the complete destruction of the Third Ship Kisubo by accident, and there is not a single reason why it should set him on edge. But he sees the trader family's seal on the bulletins, and it sparks a memory _._ A girl, drifting alone on the endless ocean… Niko _runs_.

He makes it.

He saves the metal mage – like the others, she doesn't even know about her own powers yet, and yet, her blaze is incandescent. Like Trisana, like Briar, like Sandrilene, Daja Kisubo glows with the silver light that marks magic, shines with the blinding intensity of something precious. Niko takes her back to her people and watches, helplessly, as she is subjected to trial and exiled from her kin.

She doesn't cry.

She's a strong one, this one, he thinks, and has to contain his rage at the traders. Sending a thirteen-year-old girl out into the world, without any comfort and help, just because she is the sole survivor of an accident? Niko doesn't believe in the Trader's fate. Every man decides what his own luck is, in the end. But he keeps his temper in check, respectful of the _Tsaw'ha_ culture and ways of life. He doesn't say anything, forces himself to watch and listen, and tries to understand their point of view. He keeps himself in check until she turns to him, defeated, and nods: a tiny, accepting, heart-broken nod.

"It's all right. I understand."

It lances through him like a bolt of lightning: the unfairness of her situation. This is a child who could have a family – he knows how interwoven _Tsaw'ha_ culture is – but who is being denied her heritage, due to a stroke of bad luck she couldn't have changed even if she had wanted it to, or had the power she might wield in a few decades. It is unfair, like so many other things in life are: unfair that he could never replace his father as his heir, as the man had wished. Unfair that he'd been unable to save Niraua, unfair that Briar had grown up in the sewers, unfair that Sandilene's parents had died and Trisana's parents had given up on her. Life is unfair: how could it bless him with all this power of seeing and watching, if he was unable to do anything?

Will he forever be unable to change anything?

 _No._

 _You found them._

 _They can be happy, one day._

So is it this? Is that his purpose, the reason why he sees snippets of all futures, glimpses of presents and pasts of all over? Is this his fate: to be there just in the right moment, to save these four kids?

Will this be his legacy?

The vision hits him, hard.

When it is over, Niko swallows, and glares at the judges. The girl's arm is trembling when he takes it, gently, and draws her against him.

"I'm taking her to Winding Circle. They'll appreciate her, with or without Trader luck."

The shy glance she gives him, the mixture between hopelessness and hope, almost breaks his heart again, and fills him with strength at the same time.

 _Frostpine. I think I found what you have been looking for all those years._

* * *

He has to report back to Lightsbridge immediately – the information on the smallpox has to be carried back – so he doesn't stay in Summersea. But he is back the first possible chance, one week later.

He reports to the Dedicate Superior first.

"Quite some kids you found there," Moonstream tells him over dinner.

"One of them was accused of stealing. He slept under his bed, and while he wasn't guilty of theft he sure was hoarding a treasure there – plants over plants. The next one was deemed unable to fit in with the other girls, and she calls up lightning and hailstorm like it costs her nothing whenever she's upset. Which she is, a lot. One is an exiled trader who doesn't get along with her classmates, though this time it's their fault, not hers. And finally we have the orphaned noble who refuses to behave like a noble. It was impossible to keep them in the dormitories, so we had to take a different approach. Do you think it a good idea to send them to Discipline, all four of them? I have no doubts Dedicates Rosethorn and Lark will be able to handle them. But will they get along?"

Niko shrugs, trying to pretend he has no idea. But his heart is pounding. "It's worth a try. Let's observe them a bit. They have tremendous power. We can't tell them, they need to figure it out by themselves. Maybe they can help each other cope."

Moonstream's eyes still are guarded. "You know that you are required, by law, to teach them until you've found suitable instructors."

Niko's ready for that.

"Sandry is a thread mage. She's best taught by Lark. Rosethorn will find that the boy has an unusual affinity for plants. With Daja, I suspect metal magic. Maybe Frostpine's search for a student has come to an end. And Trisana…" He takes a sip of his wine, to win some time. "I will teach her the basics of control and such. Until we find a suitable teacher."

Moonstream leans back in her chair.

"You've already thought this through. How do you know so much about them?"

He toys with the thought of telling her, he really does. But _I've known them since my childhood_ , or _I have always seen them in my visions..._ It's just… Impossible. He cannot do it. Not yet, not ever, perhaps. These four – they have been his secret, his imaginary friends. They have been his source of comfort and hope for so long it feels… _wrong…_ to share them like that. So Niklaren Goldeye only smiles.

"Yes, why, I wonder."

Moonstream sighs, and frowns, briefly. "Well, you might as well be stuck with them, if you can't give me a reason to not involve you."

"I can live with that."

And indeed, he thinks, he can.

* * *

 _This is the moment he knows:_

They are on the roof of a small, white cottage.

The sun is shining down on them; in the distance, the Hub's clock tolls the midday hour. They look young – but still older than they are now. Niko estimates them to be six, maybe eight years older.

The plant mage's black hair is tousled. His face carries the harsh lines of someone who has seen horrible things, but it is softened by the peacefulness that surrounds them all. The weather mage looks fragile, like she has just recovered from a sickness, but her power saturates her. Oddly, it is mixed with colors – lightning merging with copper, silk and vines. It's beautiful. The metal mage has covered her face with her arm – the living metal's still coating her hand, glowing softly with magic – but her shoulders are relaxed. The thread mage leaning against the chimney, finally, is the only one whose eyes are open, and her gaze as she looks at the other three is filled with so much love that Niko has to swallow.

"Briar, can we come back to this place?" The metal mage asks, not taking her arm off her face. "Will this be here?"

The weather mage twitches, and then holds so still it seems almost unnatural. The thread mage's smile vanishes.

"I made this for us," the plant mage says, sounding surprised. His eyes open, and meet the thread mage's, and they look at each other, intently. "Alright, I made it for me, first, but it was us. It is us."

He leans back, his eyes closing again. The thread mage closes her eyes, too. Her smile is mirrored on all of their faces.

 _It's always us,_ the wind whispers.

And Niko smiles, too.

* * *

Discipline Cottage is still asleep when he approaches it.

 _Rosethorn. Lark._

He can't wait to see his friends again.

They will be inside, settling down for their first breakfast together in a long time, one he hopes will be also the first in a long row of meals taken together once again. Lark will smile, preparing the porridge. Rose will boil water for the tea, glaring at anyone daring to look at her in the morning. Sandry will talk, excitedly, Daja will listen, and Briar will try to steal morsels of food. Tris will be reading.

 _Trisana. Briar. Sandrilene. Daja._

The four names ring from deep within him. He has known them for years now, has seen them in good times and in bad, has seen visions of the future he prays won't come true, and that just might, despite everything. But he _never knew their names._ Knowing, now, feels both elevating and bitter-sweet.

There, on the path to Dicipline cottage, the sun peeking over the horizon, Niklaren Goldeye realizes one thing: He wants to love these kids.

He wants to love these ghosts of his past and present, wants to teach them and watch them and see them grow into the people he saw in his visions. He wants to help shape their lives to the best of their intents and abilities, wants them to be happy and together and whole. He wants to protect them with everything he has. He wants to love them _so much_.

Their meeting will be the beginning of a new part of their lives, even if they don't know yet.

Niko, despite being the greatest truthsayer and most sought-after seer of the continent, perhaps even the greatest seer of his generation, doesn't know everything, either. He cannot tell what the future brings, even if he has watched their possible paths for his entire life. He doesn't know whether Trisana will overcome her hate for other people, or whether the darkness in Sandrilene will consume her, in the end. He cannot say whether Briar will leave Winding Circle, bitter and disappointed, or whether Daja will be adopted by another trader family and leave behind magic for good. He doesn't know how long he will live, and how or when he will die.

But he knows one thing: He has been living for the day he would finally get to meet them.

The sun rises above the walls and comes alive above Discipline Cottage in all shades of red; fire and gold.

Niko takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door.

* * *

 _This is the end of your search, seer. Rest, now_.


End file.
